


The Right Thing

by Crimsonkid19



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: also im just trying to write the story the way I want it to be written, and also i am too, came up with this trying to sleep, he's lost, its just jason, lmao DUH, man gotta love suffering, my poor boy, prob not bringing in outlaws, someone help jason todd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 01:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11369337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimsonkid19/pseuds/Crimsonkid19
Summary: As the adage goes, the easy thing and the right thing are rarely the same. Life for Jason Todd was never easy, but having a second chance proves to be more difficult than he bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

Dying was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Giving in to the final escape of the horror of his life until this point; in those short 15 years he’d done more, seen more and been through more tragedy and abuse than the average person goes through in a lifetime. Even now, as he watched the numbers tick down and looked into the face of the person who brought him into this wretched, twisted world, he felt something most people wouldn’t understand; he felt relieved. The numbers ticked down with complementary incessant beeping, the explosion in the warehouse gave way to the midmorning sun streaming in through the window in a safehouse on the East Side of Gotham City.

Jason Todd, former Crime Alley hooligan, successor to Dick Grayson, troubled teenager and part time killer, was very much alive.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been five years since he left that warehouse in the arms of the Batman, and two since he had been sent back to kill him by a madman by the name of Ra’s al Ghul and his followers, members of the League of Shadows (Jason was well aware how pretentious the name sounded). It was Ra’s, after all, who had brought him back after the explosion, Ra’s who had taught him to harness his anger, Ra’s who had shaped his reformed mind like clay to seek vengeance, not justice. If it were any other person, Jason had concluded, the task Ra’s had in mind would have worked; but this was Jason Todd, and no one makes Jason Todd do something he doesn’t want to. 

Sometimes it was even hard for Jason to get Jason Todd to do things he didn’t want to. He finally stretched himself out of bed, his right side screaming in protest from the blows he had accumulated last night. He walked around the corner of his bedroom, took five steps down the hallway and ended at his bathroom. As he waited for the shower to warm up, he looked into the mirror of the outdated bathroom. When he was younger, Jason used to imagine what he’d look like when he got older, when Bruce and Dick were on speaking terms, he would stand behind Dick as he talked, watching the muscles in his back and shoulders move, wondering how old you had to be to look like that. Sometimes he’d stand in Bruce’s closet watching him get ready for his real job, picking out suits and ties and shirts made from beautiful fabrics and subconsciously relishing when Bruce would ask him his opinion on a combination. Jason wondered then if some day he would wear suits and ties and go to a real job behind some fancy desk with the skyline of Gotham behind him. 

Jason never thought that the man-- at this age, he had to believe that he was out of the “boy” phase, wonder and elsewise—looking back at him was the same Jason Peter Todd who once thought that donning tights made him invincible. The man in the mirror looked tired, worn thin, and anything but what Jason thought he’d look like. 

As he stood and leaned into the vanity, the only thing that kept him from thinking the person opposite him was a ghost, was the constant coolness of porcelain on his palms. His face looked fine from afar, but the closer you got, the more you saw that it was a patchwork of tiny, white scars. They were hair-thin and faded, but they wove a tapestry of the trauma he’d been through in the five years since he left and came back. Jason figured they were the result of the resurrection pit trying to repair the damage from the explosion, but he never really cared to ask. He had the same scars on his chest and back, one on his right wrist from a run in with The Riddler shortly after he began his career as the second Robin, a few more from various twists and turns down the wrong road, landing the wrong way or just plain wiping out. One of those wrong turns was now blooming across the right side of Jason’s torso, making his ribcage a nest of purples and blacks marbled together. He turned slightly, cursing himself for the pain that screamed through him. He placed two fingers down the bruised area, putting pressure on each rib as he assessed the damage to his body. He concluded that nothing was broken, but he was going to feel the bruised ribs for weeks to come. 

He ran his hand through his dark hair, still confused about where that streak in the front really came from, finally deciding to get into the shower and try to soothe the dull ache that ran through him. 

By the time the water ran cold, Jason was starving. He walked back around the corner, stopping to pick up the newspaper from the floor, tossing it onto the counter before looking into the fridge. 

The worst part about his foray into vigilante-ism, Jason had decided, was the lack of fresh groceries. Running from safe house to safe house didn’t exactly afford him the ability to keep a fully stocked fridge, so he mostly lived on take out and dry goods. He once had heard Dick complain to Alfred after returning from an assignment about the lack of snacks he enjoyed, only to watch the butler roll his eyes and mention that were it possible, Dick Grayson would eat pure corn syrup and enjoy it. Jason caught himself smiling at the memory, not sure what he found funnier, the blatant lack of tact the older man employed or the squawk of indignation from the younger man before a carefully crafted excuse that convinced no one but the china salt and pepper shaker figurines. 

Jason settled on something simple, simple because it was plain and the only thing he had in the house: toast and a glass of juice. He sat down at the counter, placing both his glass and the plate down onto the grimy, Formica surface and looked down at the front page of the newspaper, only to be met with a grainy image of himself under the glaring headline written by some poor overworked and underpaid journalist. 

RED HOODWINKS AGAIN, SOUTHSIDE GANG IN THE BAG

Jason rolled his eyes as he chewed on his toast, reading the story about how he had taken down one of the most notorious gangs on the Southside seemingly singlehandedly. 

In the years he’d been gone, the only thing that hadn’t changed was the way the press wrote about Gotham’s heroes. They wrote about them as if they were gods, not knowing that they people they worshiped were as lost as the rest of them. He knew the man across the bay who played both sides of the act found himself in an awkward position come Monday morning when Superman had saved the world, again, on Sunday afternoon.   
In fact, the thing Jason liked least about the game was the laudatory statements for doing his job. No hero, regardless of flight, speed or strength became a hero for the press. They did it to save their cities, they did it because the cause came to them, they did it because they had known what at meant to be in grave danger or because everyone deserves a fighting chance, not to have their picture taken.


	3. Chapter 3

The article was one of the more gratuitous ones Jason had ever read about himself, the consensus on the Red Hood was split down the middle: if you were well-off, he was a menace; if you were poor, he was your savior. 

Not unlike the rest of the people Jason had spent his formative years around, he never became a hero for the glory of it all, and if he had, Bruce would have taken that away from him too. Training to be Robin was a lifelong commitment, much like Bruce’s training to become Batman was. 

Jason’s training as Robin was largely based on Bruce’s past experience with Dick, it focused on body positioning and graceful maneuvers more than speed and strength. Time was spent on the parallel bars and balance beam, usually with some sort of distraction thrown in, such as Bruce pelting tennis balls at the Robin-in-training. The thing Bruce failed to realize about his two protégés in the early phases of Jason’s training was how vastly different the two boys were. 

Dick Grayson was a world-renowned acrobat and trapeze artist at the age of five. Jason Todd was trying to avoid having his ears boxed at the age of five, spending most of his time in places he wasn’t supposed to be. Since he was in the circus, Dick was a natural performer, bringing his charm with him from the big top. Jason had never quite felt comfortable enough in Crime Alley to schmooze with the best of them, he wasn’t a naturally charming person. Jason was taught to solve his problems with retaliation—if someone was going to step on his toes, Jason would stomp right back. 

This caused an issue between Bruce and Jason after the billionaire had brought Jason fully under his care. You see, taking a kid who’s never known anything but the constant dampness of a fire escape into a mansion isn’t the world’s easiest task, and Jason wasn’t making it any easier. 

Jason didn’t like the control being placed on his life without his saying so, more than that, he hated the control Bruce placed on him. No longer was Jason allowed to roam the streets at night for hours at a time, if there even were enough streets to roam in the quiet suburb the manor was situated in. He had a bed time, something Jason insisted he didn’t need, he went to a school with uniforms, he had to obey the rules set forth by not only Bruce but Alfred; no matter how ridiculous they seemed. 

Most of the time Jason tried not to let his new dad and mentor get under his skin, but the belief that having Jason train for hours a day and work for weeks on a fake case was enough to piss anyone off. 

It was one night in the middle of June that Jason finally snapped. He was done with the mind games, done with the physical training, done with the whole concept of being Robin and even more than that, done with Bruce Wayne. 

The pair were down in the Cave working on a maneuver Jason had tried and failed to master for weeks, whether or not it was actually Dick’s move didn’t matter to Bruce. It was after keeping silent for hours of critique that was evolving from helpful to annoying background noise that Jason decided he wanted a break. 

He hopped down from the parallel bars and made a move for the doorway of the training room only to be stopped by the arm blocking his exit. Jason stood patiently for a few seconds, avoid eye contact with both the forearm and the man it belonged to. 

“Going somewhere?” it wasn’t a question, but more of an accusation covered with feigned interest. 

“Upstairs,” Jason replied, now feeling a little more caged than he’d like, but certainly not more than he was used to at this point. 

“We’re not quite done here, Robin.” 

It was at this moment, at the mention of the sacred name that Jason lost the composure he’d been maintaining for the past few hours. 

“You know what? I don’t actually care. I don’t care if I’m not done, Bruce, because I’m not Robin. I’m not Robin, some little lapdog you train to help you bring in the bozos with no sort of reward other than a hearty laugh on the roof of the GCPD. I’m not Robin, who does whatever you say, even if it means getting my ass handed to me by a freak in a onesie because god forbid I “lose control” and hit him a little too hard. I’m not Robin because I know what these people do to each other, better than you do-- tucked up here in your house on a hill looking down at the rest of us, how pitiful we must look, that we need Batman to come and save us. And as far as these stupid maneuvers you have me do every night on these bars---I’m sick of them. I hate having to flip around on the rooftops like some little circus monkey doing tricks to prove how good I am as a sidekick. I’m getting really tired of you trying to make me into something I’m not, Bruce, I never asked for this. I never asked to be turned into Dick Grayson,” at the mention of the name, Bruce stood a little stiffer. “I’m not Robin, Bruce. You had a Robin, and you drove him away because you couldn’t just relax for one second. You want a Robin? Go talk to Nightwing.” 

Jason hadn’t realized how far he’d walked from Bruce, he was now closer to the opposite wall than the doorway. He looked up, blue meeting blue, and realized that for the first time in months, Bruce Wayne had listened to him. 

Jason picked up his jacket and walked toward the door, toward the arm that dropped in defeat as soon as Jason reached it. He kept walking, past the computer bay, past the body sitting at the main monitor who had been incessantly typing for the past few hours, doing some research on god knows what—now sitting silent. Jason knew he had heard every word and he wasn’t sure whether or not to apologize to him. After all, he had just run the guy’s name through the proverbial mud. He stopped at the first step, turning slightly toward the bay he heard two words, barely vocalized, but enough to convey how the man in black and blue felt. 

“Goodnight, Jason.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jason knew now, as he sat in the rapidly darkening apartment, that Bruce was right. Jason was impulsive. He was impulsive and driven by anger; he didn’t understand why he couldn’t pay the world back for all the harm it had done to him. This world, this city, needed to be cleaned up. 

That’s what Jason was doing as Red Hood; he was taking back the places that belonged to people like him, little by little. He’d initially started using the guns as scare tactics-- he didn’t necessarily want to shoot someone when he could take them in peacefully; not that many of his interactions with the people he took down were peaceful, but they didn’t always end in bloodshed. 

The first time he held the gun knowing he would end up pulling the trigger was six months after he’d fully taken on the persona of Red Hood, a night he’d never forget. 

It was a painfully cold and rainy night in Gotham City; not that the nights were ever warm in Gotham, but tonight had a spectacular chill to it. Jason was working his patrol route, contemplating heading home early. It had been a quiet night, and knowing what he knew about the rotating patrols Bruce employed, he was sure one of the old gang would swoop by (no pun intended, he thought to himself) and cover his position. The leather jacket he’d slipped on wasn’t doing much to keep the rain and wind from biting at his neck, he was soaking wet and he was pretty sure his toes were starting to go numb from the wind and rain. Jason longingly thought of the warm fabric stitched on the interior of his old cape and how he’d wrap it around himself like a blanket while Bruce finished up with Commissioner Gordon. On nights like those, Alfred would greet him with a warm towel and a mug of homemade hot chocolate, complete with floating marshmallows. He’d go up to his bedroom in the manor and snuggle deep into warm linens, falling asleep almost immediately. 

It was a scream that ripped Jason away from his memory and back to reality. He stood completely still, wondering if he’d heard a cat fight instead of a human being in distress. He strained against the pounding of the rain on the rooftop of the building and heard the same noise again, much more desperate this time. Whoever was making that noise had to be close, no more than a block and a half, and they must be putting up a fight. 

He immediately took off in the direction of the scream, hearing two more in rapid succession causing his heart to race, praying to some god out there that he wasn’t too late. As he cleared the final rooftop and landed in the alleyway behind a man and a woman, he knew exactly why the cries were becoming more desperate by the second. The man wasn’t taller than Jason but he had probably 20 pounds on him, so if it came to combat Jason would have to use his weight against him and avoid falling onto the pavement. If he had to guess, he’d say that the man was mob affiliated, he had that entitled, grubby attitude about him. He was pushing the woman back into the corner of the alleyway, away from the light. She opened her mouth the scream once more, but closed it as soon as she saw Jason land in front of her. 

Jason walked closer to the man and saw something flash across the woman’s face, something painfully familiar that hooked him right in the gut. For a second Jason was six years old again, peering around the corner of his living room in a dumpy apartment not far from this very alleyway watching the same look flash across his own mother’s face followed by the sound he knew too well. If he was younger, he would have bolted in an instant, but Jason decided that no longer would he allow fear; his or anyone else’s, to control his life anymore. 

Jason rested his hand on his hip, nonchalantly indicating to the woman in front of him that he wasn’t crazy—well, he was crazy, but ready for whatever this guy was going to throw at him, reassuring her in the gesture that she’d walk away, even if he didn’t. 

“How are we doing tonight, folks?” Was adding ‘folks’ at the end of the statement too casual for the present situation?

“We’re fine, buddy, so why don’t you go ahead home?” 

“Are you sure,” Jason looked up to the sky “I mean, it looks a little stormy and I’d hate for you to catch cold.” Jason stepped to the right to make eye contact with the woman, or something that was like eye contact if she could see his face under the mask. “Ma’am, are you alright?” 

Before she could answer the question Jason already knew the answer to, the man rounded on him, angrier this time. 

“I already told ya, go home. Mind your own business, we’re fine.” 

“As much as I don’t believe that, I was asking her, not the authority on track suits, so mind your own.” 

As soon as the last word left his mouth, Jason knew he was in trouble. The man lunged toward him, something silver glinting in the streetlight, coming straight for his chest. 

Before he knew it, Jason had drawn the gun. There was a loud pop, then a scream from the woman as the knife clattered to the pavement. The man seemed to be falling in slow motion toward Jason as his reaction changed from anger to shock. Jason instinctively reached out for the man as he fell and caught him before he hit the ground, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop the scarlet spreading rapidly across his white shirt. 

Somewhere in between the gunshot and Jason’s catching of the now dying man, the woman had run off-- either too scared of Jason or just happy to be out of danger, not willing to stick around and become act two. Jason’s knees hit the pavement as he lifted the man up from the filthy alleyway and into his lap, looking into his face. His breathing was coming much more ragged now and Jason knew he didn’t have much time left. The man began to reach up toward Jason only to have his final act cut short by a final sigh and the stillness of the dark night.


	5. Chapter 5

The fact of the matter was Jason wasn’t a killer. The world had tried to make him one by taking away his family, throwing him through the ringer, blowing him up and bringing him back. With all he’d seen, he didn’t want to look in the mirror and see the person he’d sworn to stop staring back at him. 

He hadn’t stuck to the methods he’d been trained with, but to state that he’d completely abandoned them would be an insult to Jason and the people who trained him. He believed that he was reacting to the situation he was in with the appropriate amount of violence. 

“Storms in the forecast tonight as we look to the weekend, nicer weather on the horizon for the early days of next week, look for a 30 percent chance of storms on Monday and Tuesday…” Jason nearly jumped off of his stool at the crackly weather report signaling that it was time for him to get going. 

He looked back at his plate and took one last swig out of his glass, grimacing at the warm juice before turning back to the direction of the bedroom. Pulling the closet door open with a sigh, he removed the pieces of his costume, saving the most important piece for last. As he took down the helmet he held it in both hands, studying every detail of the emotionless mask. 

There were more times than not that Jason was mere inches from death at the hands on some kook on a rooftop if it weren’t for the blank slate covering his own face. Of course he knew the history of the identity, how could he not when the man, the thing that it once belonged to had ended his life? 

Part of taking on the identity of Red Hood was to differentiate himself from the rest of the heroes in Gotham City who dressed in shades of black after a certain age. Another smaller part of taking on the identity was to grab the attention of the world’s greatest detective. 

Fully dressed, Jason slipped out of his bedroom window and onto the fire escape. Sure enough, the weatherman was correct and a steady rain was falling upon Gotham, only adding to the unnatural dark and dampness the city already had. He looked up at the sky through the brick tunnel. On nights like these, you could be tricked into thinking the buildings in Gotham City went on endlessly into the sky. Maybe that’s why the city was always so dark; the slats of light coming through the spaces extinguished almost immediately by the mass of people down below. 

Looking at the city like this made Jason think of the rainforests in South America. When he was younger he’d done a research project on rainforests, spending hours sitting at the kitchen table cutting pictures out of magazines, asking Alfred a litany of questions about the animals in the rainforest Jason already knew the answer to. Alfred was a good sport about it, showing a genuine interest in Jason’s knowledge of the rainforest, more than that, happy that the boy was speaking. 

The two were interrupted by the garage door closing and Bruce’s entrance into the kitchen. He sighed as he kicked off his shoes and put his heavy briefcase down onto the floor before crossing the room to ruffle Jason’s hair. Jason smiled up at Bruce as he pulled the next chair over out and sat down next to his newest son. 

“And this one is a…” Bruce inquired lifting up a super glossy image of some hairy animal amongst the leaves from the thick piece of poster board Jason was meticulously gluing other animals on. He had drawn a diagram of the layers of the rainforest and was putting the respective animals where they would naturally live. It filled Bruce with a sense of pride to see Jason’s initiative when it came to academia, he had to admit, given his circumstances he never would have thought that this boy loved school. 

“I’ve already told you, this is a three-toed sloth and they move so slowly they grow algae on their fur,” Jason explained, a small smile forming across his face as he thought of a follow-up statement. “Just like you on Saturday mornings, maybe you should change your name!” 

Bruce laughed at Jason’s dig before thinking of his own. 

“I’m not so sure about that, Jason. The only parasite I have around here is you, kiddo” Bruce reached over to tickle the kid to assure him he wasn’t serious, to which Jason let out peals of laughter that echoed throughout the manor.

Far above the kitchen, in the East wing of the massive house, the only other person in it let a smile come across his face as he turned the page of his novel.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the messages/kudos, everyone! I've been playing with this story for a couple of weeks and I'm glad that you guys are enjoying it. As a longtime Robin 2.0/ Red Hood/JT fan, I'm pretty attached to his story, I just wish it was a little more consistent. (: Happy 4th to my fellow American readers; for the rest of you, happy tuesday!

The rain was starting to pick up now as Jason headed out onto his patrol route. He’d chosen this one because he knew he’d be able to manage this area as he wanted, far out from the control of Batman and the rest, and close enough to the criminal empires to hold them under his thumb.

He was working in no man’s land, not that he wanted to have an audience of judgement around him, but he was highly aware that he was his only support. Most of the time he was able to outsmart his criminals, they weren’t exactly Rhodes Scholars.

Even now, as he lay belly down on the roof and looked across into the windows of the warehouse he’d been casing, he could tell that he was dealing with part-time crooks. He’d been watching this place for weeks, he knew that every Tuesday shipment came in, and every Thursday shipment went out. He also knew that each weekend he took down more street corner mules than he’d like and he’d come across a few more overdoses that seemed too coincidental to be an accident.

Exactly _what_ these idiots were pushing onto the streets he wasn’t sure. He’d beaten one of the dealers black and blue to get answers out of him—but these guys were good. Jason wasn’t an advocate for recreational drug use, given his background, and these guys were selling to teenagers—kids, no more than sixteen at the oldest. Call him crazy, but that didn’t jive with Jason.

Scanning the row of windows and down the side of the building, he noticed one fatal flaw that further exemplified his assumption about his targets; the door was open. Rolling his eyes and taking the open door as an invitation, he jumped to the next building over, walked across the rooftop and paused before jumping down.

Jason could’ve sworn that he’d seen someone, or _something_ move slightly out of his field of vision. Turning around slowly, he quickly scanned the area, thanking the lightning for illuminating the rooftop at that moment, assuring him he wasn’t being tailed. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for so long in-between publishing! I've been working my actual job and working on a manuscript. I've got a couple of chapters done so here's hoping things come a little more frequently.

Landing lightly on the street down below, he headed toward the door, ever conscious of the men inside the warehouse laughing loudly, not caring or knowing they were being listened to. The feeling Jason had on the rooftop had only intensified down below. As he looked up, he saw the same flash of movement against the clouds, then stillness. 

A knot of panic rose in Jason, his heart pounding at the sight. Once was a trick of the light, or more appropriately, the darkness; twice, he was being followed. 

He thought about turning back and coming back another night, terrified at the thought that his old partner was around. Jason pulled up his mental map of Gotham City, realizing he was far too East to be in danger of being spotted by Bruce. 

Who, then, was watching him and what did they want? Didn’t they realize that Jason was doing his job, the same thing he’d been doing for months? 

Jason let those thoughts slip into the back of his mind as he pushed the door open further, slipping inside the warehouse undetected. From his hiding place behind a few stacked wooden pallets, he could see the men moving the product from one large cargo truck to three other, unmarked vehicles. 

“And the crazy thing is, the guy says the more they use it, the more it spreads. He’s working with some scientist out west to get it to sweat into trace effects, so the next time someone can’t handle the fun,” the man smacked his palms together is emphasis “bam, one more takes his place.” 

The rest of the men laughed and Jason grit his teeth. Shifting his weight so he was now further on his toes, he waited for the leader to turn around before he made his move. Walking calmly over to the group of men with his right hand resting atop his holster, he spoke out. 

“You know; I never was a fan of the ‘say no to drugs’ campaigns. Beside isolating an entire demographic of people, I thought they were grandiose and obnoxious,” he leaned down to pick up one of the packages “but now I have to admit, I think they were right about how messed up you’d have to be to do them, but more than that, how stupid you’d have to be to sell them in my neighborhood.” 

There was a moment of shock before the goons caught on. As Jason braced himself for impact, the same sense of panic he’d had in the alleyway reappeared, quickly replaced with adrenaline. That’s the thing that still shocked Jason after all this time; how criminals worked in the school of brute force over skilled attack. Sure, they landed blows, but they also tired themselves out quicker. 

For the most part, Jason escaped unharmed from the encounter. He was going to feel the punches he’d earned in the morning, but that was now normal for him. He’d walked away with every guy in handcuffs and was now in the process of calling in the cops. When you’re a vigilante, he thought, you can’t exactly book the criminals, just pin them down. Jason was two rings into the call when a voice echoed through the silence. 

“Let me guess,” someone gracefully dropped down from the rafters “calling the newspaper? Or have you moved on from that and a news crew is on their way here right now?” 

Jason knew that voice, of course he knew that voice. He’d spent years listening to it in person and over secure comm links, but what was he doing here. He didn’t dare turn around, if the owner knew he was back, the gig was up; Jason would have to endure some emotional reunion followed by retraining, and that was like six months Jason didn’t have. 

More than that, he knew the fear in that voice. He knew the aloofness to it was nothing more than a disguise for a rapid heartbeat. He may have been raised to fly, but all human beings have a fear of falling.


End file.
